The chest, a hollowed birdcage, ribs splayed wide,
No fragile heart to flutter, only tide
Of absence, pulling, churning, cold and vast,
A landscape where all joy has long since passed.
No polished grief, no carefully composed
Expression etched in sorrow, neatly posed.
But ragged edges where the spirit tore,
A primal scream that echoes evermore
Within the silence, thick and heavy-hung,
A broken...
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